


chasing warning signs

by sweetwatersong



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Humor, Law School, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 11:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16533818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwatersong/pseuds/sweetwatersong
Summary: Clint's looking for one Natasha Romanoff, care of Krasny and Daughters; she's got a delivery? Or at least an envelope? Anyone?Or: He's just a guy with a bike, and she's a woman with an agenda. Please don't shoot the messenger.





	chasing warning signs

**Author's Note:**

> For bibuchanan, who requested "a law firm au? or law school? or at least an au where natasha is in law, clint can be a secretary or bike messenger or w/e".

“I’m looking for a Natasha Romanoff,” Clint begins, showing the manila envelope to the matronly woman behind the desk. “Is she new here? I don’t recognize the name.” The secretary looks up from her work, one dark eyebrow lifting when she spots him, but the threatening glare eases as soon as he sets the Starbucks down on the counter.

“She might be,” the tanned woman replies archly and accepts the peace offering for last week with dignity, although her warning look makes it clear that a repeat of the fiasco with the toner ink will earn him a spot on the ‘Unwelcome at the Office’ list. “Law student at SCCU, working here under the partners for experience. You just missed her; she’s the redhead you walked past on your way in the door.”

“Thanks, Fanny, couldn’t do it without you.” He gives her a cheeky grin and does an about-face, careful to walk all the way through the lobby until the door shuts behind him. Then it becomes a free-for-all to follow the dot of brilliant crimson hair three city blocks in front of him, tracking her around the store poster-boards and tables. He likes the city as much as the next guy - or as much as any cyclist can, really - but sends up a quick prayer thanking whoever for the mostly empty streets. ‘Natasha’ turns a corner up ahead and a distant part of him notes that it’s a strange choice, but he doesn’t stop to wonder at that until he slides around the corner after her - and is sent flying onto the ground.

Sky, brick wall, trash bags, lady, gun, _gun -_

Focused on the compact but deadly firearm aimed steadily at his face, Clint tries really hard not to panic.

“Why are you following me?” She asks, the order carried out in the curling edge of her lips, and while he’s met a lot of people around here with paranoia, she seems to be taking it to extremes.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Natasha Romanoff?” He inquires breathlessly, because hey, stick with what you know, and lifts the hand with the envelope. Her cool gaze flicks to it only for a moment before returning to him, grey and clear and cold. Wow, even for a law student, she has a pretty killer straight face.

Bad choice of words there.

There is a cool contempt in her expression, though, when she slides the gun into a concealed holster and holds out her other hand in an obvious demand for the package. Clint gives it to her, fingers wrapping around the metal clip on his clipboard as he wonders what exactly is going to happen next, because he’s pretty sure most regular law students don’t pack heat. Or maybe they do, if they study enough criminal cases. History repeating itself, and all that.

Natasha tears open the top of the envelope with ease, pulling out a sheet of paper with a letterhead Clint recognizes even from behind, and he feels his blood run cold. It’s the same one as that letter in his crappy apartment building, as the notice for Tanner that had fallen out of his mailbox and made the portly man go sheet white - before he had turned up four days later under white morgue sheets.

Well, Clint’s never delivered a mafia message before. At least, not that he knows of.

The redhead reads the message, lips pursing, and looks down at him where he has wisely, wisely chosen to stay.

“So you’re not here to kill me,” she says matter-of-fact.

“Just trying to do my job, lady,” he tells her. She gives a hmm, studying him, and deliberately shifts her body so she’s not in between him and the alley entrance anymore. Suddenly it’s a lot easier to breathe.

“So am I,” Natasha replies, and waves the envelope. “Do I need to sign for this?”

“Uh, yeah, right here,” _thank you_ , because a third missing signature this week would get him in serious, serious trouble. Not that, you know, being shot wouldn’t have done that. Could he have smoothed over the other two if that had happened? Okay, maybe paperwork wasn’t worth a gunshot wound, but some days it seemed a close thing. Could he help it if almost dying kicked his wise-ass side into over-gear?

Probably.

Natasha the law student, Natasha the mafia… something, Natasha the new Krasny and Daughters Firm employee, finishes neatly signing the form and offers him an empty hand instead of the clipboard. Clint stares at it dumbly, not quite sure what she’s thinking and only aware that losing the day’s records is _really_ going to put him in the deep end. She makes a sighing noise and curls her fingers, clearly inviting him to take her hand to get up. Right.

So maybe he’s not going to die today. That’s a good thing, right?

“I’m sorry for threatening you,” she tells him when he’s standing and brushing off the debris clinging to his pants.

“Trust me, you’re not the first. You wouldn’t believe how many people are pissed off by the messages I deliver. Or,” he adds, considering the circumstances, “how I deliver them.”

And yes, that’s a snort, but Natasha Romanoff, redhead and definitely danger, _definitely_ someone he should steer clear of in the future, returns the clipboard with a shake of her head.

“Can I at least buy you a coffee to make up for it?” She asks, and he doesn’t need to think for more than a moment about his answer.

“Sure.”

Hey, no one said he had any self-preservation instincts; that's pretty much the description for a bike messenger in this city. Dodging cars, dodging bullets, what’s the worst that can happen?

He’ll think about that later. Right now, he’s got a date. Kind of. With a woman in the mafia. And law school.

Well, at least no one who actually knows him would be surprised.


End file.
